Making Amends
by stillwritingjag
Summary: A HarmJAG story.


Author: Laurie

Story Title: Making Amends

Classification: A Harm/JAG story.

Rating: PG

Posted: June 2007

Disclaimer: JAG belongs to Paramount, CBS, et.al. No infringement

is intended.

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Twenty minutes ago, the F-14 catapulted right-side-up off the USS Patrick Henry with two men aboard. One of the men was testing a pair of theories. The first hypothesis was disclosed to all – namely mechanical failure caused the fatal accident that occurred days earlier. The second theory, revealed to only a few, was that Lieutenant Sam Albrecht's inadequacy as a pilot, not an unstable jet, had been the root of the accident.

Now, twenty minutes later, the Tomcat was plummeting up-side-down taking the same two men with it. With every passing second, proof grew that Albrecht's hidden susceptibility to vertigo contributed to the death of Commander 'Zoomer' Zuzello, the latter leaving behind a wife and two young children. And like he had with Zuzello, Albrecht again held another life in his hands – that of Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr.

As the deteriorating situation turned serious, Harm agreed there was some validity to Mac questioning the sanity of his scheme. He kicked himself for failing to give sufficient thought to the potential consequences of proving his theory. Because, short of punching out, there was little he could directly control from his position as passenger.

"We're rolling, Lieutenant. We're upside down," Harm reported firmly from the back seat.

"No we're not, Sir." Lieutenant Albrecht disagreed from the front.

As more blue filtered through the thick white clouds, the two naval aviators continued their rapid inverted descent towards the Atlantic Ocean. Harm tried again to get the hotshot 29 year-old to realize the tenuous situation he had placed them in. "We're losing altitude! We're heading towards the water!"

"I'm going to level off, Sir. Nine thousand feet," Albrecht replied, clueless as to the consequences of doing so -- clueless that the blue was water and not sky.

"PULL BACK ON THE STICK, LIEUTENANT, AND WE'RE DEAD!" Harm succinctly simplified for him. "GET ON YOUR INSTRUMENTS! THAT'S AN ORDER!"

"BRING YOUR THROTTLE TO IDLE. RIGHT RUDDER. DO IT!" The expanse of approaching blue water grew close.

"CHECK YOUR WINGS." Closer. "LOOK AT THE TURN BANK INDICATOR." So close that whitecaps on the blue water filled Harm's field of vision. "LOOK AT YOUR ATTITUDE GYRO." Too close!

"OPEN THE SPEED BRAKES, LIEUTENANT!"

At the apex of the dream, Harm bolted upright in the darkness. His chest continued heaving while his last order reverberated in his ears. Eventually his eyes adjusted to the less threatening surroundings. Realizing where he was, he audibly groaned in relief, sheepishly shaking his head at the irony of having asked Mac if he gave her nightmares.

Alive and safe in his own bed, Harm's breathing gradually returned to normal as he replayed the tense flight one more time in his awaken state. When all was said and done, Lieutenant Albrecht had done as commanded – that upon seeing the gyro's black-above-blue graphical representation of their inverted position, Albrecht's eyes had finally conveyed to his brain the reality of their situation. 'Leveling off' like he had originally intended would have sent them into the Atlantic with no chance of survival. In the end they had returned safely to the Patrick Henry, though once there Lieutenant Albrecht learned life as he knew it was over.

With beads of sweat dotting his face, Harm ran his fingers through his wet hair -- its dampness a testament to the intensity of the recurring dream, as well as an air conditioner that had ceased working during the night.

A glance at his bedside clock revealed it was only three o'clock. But he was too uncomfortable and wired to resume sleeping, if his fitful tossing and turning could be called sleep; nor was tinkering with the malfunctioning air-conditioning unit in his stifling apartment an appealing alternative. So for the third time that week, he eased out of bed and reached for his t-shirt and sneakers.

Running this early in his dubious neighborhood was risky, but he had successfully returned unscathed from his other recent pre-dawn outings. So he set off again, setting a blistering pace to once again try to exorcise the demon plaguing him.

As his feet pounded the hard cement, his mind explored the purpose of tests. Tests like the one Admiral Chegwidden had handed him days ago, before his own testing uncovered Lieutenant Albrecht's complicity in murder.

Delving into the subject matter, he passed a bag lady in the intersection, but it was the face of an innocent Petty Officer Moritz that he saw. Then his own voice rang accusingly in his ears. "Sir, this guy is a screw up – You want me to defend him?! I'd rather take him out and slap him … and frankly, Sir, I'm not sure I can be objective."

Instinctively detouring around three lingering winos, Harm realized Admiral Chegwidden had given him a fighting chance to pass the test. "Commander, this is not a discussion. I suggest whatever feelings you have as an aviator are checked at the door before you step into the courtroom!"

While a pair of fornicating alley cats went about their business, he revisited the first of two awkward exchanges in the conference room. "You're jumping right to sentencing?" Petty Officer Moritz asked incredulously. "The facts are against you," Harm had answered matter-of-factly.

The second exchange was accompanied by a muffled television and the rattling cough of a QVC channel-junkie filtering onto the street through an open window. "I think I may have misjudged your level of objectivity, Commander," Moritz had said. Only to have the Admiral follow with his damning, "I think I made an error in judgment as well."

Between Moritz' misjudgment and the Admiral's error, the sharp squeal of tires pealed nearby as Chegwidden continued, "I thought you could rise above your personal feelings, Commander. Apparently I was wrong. You have a tendency to let your heart lead your head. I have an issue with that right now. If I can't be confident about your unbiased performance at the defense table, how can I trust you on the bench?"

Accompanied by soulful bells, Harm's legs churned harder as a devout parishioner doggedly made his way up the steep steps of a rundown church. "I hope in your diffusion of blame defense you're not going to blame the victim," Harm taunted, having been fired from the case. Correction – 'severed' not 'fired'. Sturgis' retort cut to the heart of the matter -- "I have a client to defend … whatever it takes."

The grinding gears of an approaching garbage truck drowned out the voices of two disappointed scavengers. Harm brushed by them, his perspiring body not nearly as offensive to their noses as the smelly trash. "You're an aviator. Maybe subconsciously you rushed to a judgment of guilty," Mac suggested carefully. "I was doing my job, Mac. I was doing my job … I was."

In his mind's eye, the skepticism on Mac's face morphed into the taunting demon. Desperate to distance himself from the encroaching onslaught, he pumped his arms harder, driving his legs faster. Pushing off a crumbling curb, his footing gave way under him, and he went down.

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Gingerly opening the old grate of the elevator, Harm acknowledged the purpose of tests was to identify deficiencies and lessons that still needed to be learned, or re-learned.

Granted, there was a level of redemption in having ultimately ferreted out Lieutenant Albrecht's role in the fatal accident, but Harm couldn't deny he himself deserved a failing grade. For he had screwed up an opportunity to sit on the judicial bench; he flirted with charges of inappropriate conduct; and lastly, he neglected to give his best effort to a client, an innocent one at that.

Lost in thought, his mind dissecting the litany of flaws in his performance, Harm narrowly escaped the wooden two-by-four heading his way. "HEY?!" he yelled, pushing off his sore ankle to seek refuge back in the elevator.

Startled by the arrival of the bedraggled, and somewhat bloodied tall man, the old man dropped the short board he had just lifted to his shoulder. Backpedaling, he scrambled to pick it up, taking a defensive stand when he came up with it. "I won't let you mug me!"

Harm raised his hands in a gesture of nonaggression. "Take it easy. I don't want your money, and I'm not going to hurt you."

When the unkempt man didn't move, Harm carefully peeked out beyond the elevator, making sure he wasn't being set up. Seeing no one else lurking about, he limped from the elevator. That's when he spotted the pile of longer wooden studs on the floor. Looking from the construction materials back to their apparent owner, he shook his head in confusion. "What are you doing here this time of night?"

"It's morning," the man mumbled nervously.

Harm conceded the old geezer's evaluation of time was more accurate than his own. But it was still a questionable hour for any kind of maintenance work or manual labor. Easing his tired body against the wall, Harm used his sweat-soaked shirt to wipe the latest layers of perspiration and humidity from his face. "You didn't answer my question," he carefully reminded him, wondering about the sanity of the stranger.

The old man scratched the stubble on his chin and studied his shuffling feet before answering. "I'm working on the vacant apartment down the hall."

"Alone?"

The white head of hair shot up. "I can do the work of two men!" he retorted, hitching his pants up and straightening his stooped five-foot, six-inch frame.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to imply you aren't capable. It's just awfully early."

"Couldn't sleep."

Harm smirked. "I can relate to that," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Harmon Rabb. Harm for short. I live here."

Still leery, the man squinted as he looked Harm up and down. "Been here four days and haven't seen you come or go. How come?"

Harm let his hand drop to his side when the man failed to grasp it. "Judge Helfman ruled inappropriate contact."

The man's bloodshot eyes widened and he tightened his two-handed grip on the board. "Inappropriate contact …You some kind of pervert?"

"What?! … oh … no, nothing like that. It has to do with a breech of rule five-o --"

Realizing how ludicrous his explanations were, Harm stopped short. His lack of sleep was definitely affecting his thought process. "Look, let's start over. I'm Commander Harmon Rabb, U.S. Navy. I live here."

Harm carefully withdrew the key from his shorts and nodded to the door directly across from the elevator. "I've recently been given some TAD, umm…temporary assigned duties -- duties that have me leaving here way too early and getting home much too late."

"How come?"

Harm rubbed his forehead, anxious to let himself into his apartment. "How come what?"

"How come you've been given these extra duties?"

His body screaming for a shower and some TLC, Harm considered all the ways he could answer that question. Heading for his apartment, he finally answered succinctly, "Penance."

"Is that true?"

Harm looked back over his shoulder and nodded earnestly.

Having found a kindred soul, the old man extended his hand. "I'm Joe."

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"I'm still a lawyer," Harm had answered truthfully days earlier when Mac asked him how his meeting went with Judge Helfman. He just neglected to mention that some strings were attached to the deal -- namely three weeks of personally clerking for the judge, on top of his regular responsibilities.

Mac uncovered the double-duty returning to the office late one night to retrieve some forgotten concert tickets. She found him hunkered behind a stack of law books, an incriminating empty pizza box nearby. Caught red-handed, he admitted to working all evening researching case law for Helfman.

How it had come about was quite simple. As Petty Officer Moritz's new defense counsel, Sturgis claimed Harm inappropriately spoke about the case to the prosecution, that being Mac. Having listened to explanations from Sturgis, Mac, and Harm himself, Judge Helfman concluded Harm had danced too close to the edge this time.

Regardless of his role in proving Lieutenant Albrecht's murderous involvement and, by extension, Moritz's innocence, Helfman had no choice but to throw the book at Harm – albeit a light book that stopped short of an official inquiry or reprimand on his record. Rather, in light of the shortage of judicial personnel, she imposed creative punishment that would help lessen the burdens upon the reduced staff. But in doing so, her unorthodox sentence resulted in the ungodly schedule that Harm had been keeping for nearly three weeks, the insane hours made harder by his string of nightmares and insomnia.

Continuing to keep up his end of the arrangement, he was again the first in the office today, despite his minor accident a few short hours ago. Buried in his work, he didn't hear Mac until she spoke.

"Only two more days to go," Mac commiserated seeing the blackness under his eyes. "You look like you didn't go home at all last night."

Harm dropped his pen on his desk and sat back his chair. "Feel like it too."

From behind her back, Mac produced a cup of Harm's favorite Starbucks brew. "Maybe this will help," she smiled, setting it on his desk.

"Thanks. You're a lifesaver."

Before indulging, Harm brought his palms to his face, attempting to scrub away some of his fatigue. Through his splayed fingers, he asked almost shyly, "So, do you want to go flying over the July Fourth weekend?"

Mac's eyes widened, the question going unanswered when she saw his damaged elbows standing out in sharp contrast to his short-sleeved summer whites. "Harm! What happened?"

He followed her gaze to his arms. "Tripped while running."

"When do you have time for running?"

Harm just shrugged, letting Mac inspect the nasty scrapes.

"Jeesh, it must have been some tumble."

"I have a matching pair on my knees. A.J. Roberts would be impressed."

Not liking the tiredness in his voice, Mac took a seat in his office. "Maybe I should talk to Judge Helfman. Somebody has to keep your health in mind."

"Naw, like you said, just two more days to go."

"I don't know, Harm. You don't look good. I think--."

"Let it go, Mac! I just haven't been sleeping well."

Clearly wounded, Mac stood. "Well if you say so."

"Mac, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap."

Hearing sincere remorse, Mac was about to delve further when Petty Officer Tiner appeared at the door. "Ma'am, Sir. There's a story on ZNN you're going to want to hear."

And in other news from Afghanistan, Corporal Kenneth Karns is charged with the willful killing of his commanding officer. The incident occurred during a raid on a suspected Taliban stronghold in the hills outside Kabul. ZNN has chosen to break with media-military policy and show footage shot by our embedded reporter, Robert Haskins. Due to the graphic nature of the video, some viewers may wish to turn away for the next ten seconds.

Sturgis shook his head. "A fragging incident on top of everything else. What was Karns thinking?"

Harm raised an eyebrow and looked at his friend, unable to pass up the opportunity. "That's not very objective, Sturgis."

Sturgis' head snapped towards the source of the rebuke. "Objective, Harm? Did you not just see the same thing I did? I'm ready to go to Kabul right now."

"But—" Harm stopped short and snapped to attention, the others following suit when Admiral Chegwidden joined them.

"As you were. Nobody is heading to Kabul. Karns' unit was scheduled to be recalled this week. All the key parties will be available in the States to question."

Harriet Roberts' eyes narrowed. "I can't wait for one of you to nail that … that …"

"Fool?" Tiner suggested.

"Murderer," someone countered.

"But—" Harm started only to be cut off by Mac who shook her head and frowned.

"That's all this war needs is an escalation of bad press. The parallels to Vietnam will grow exponentially."

"But—"

"Alright people, back to work. Staff meeting in ten minutes," Admiral Chegwidden ordered, turning away from the bank of overhead televisions.

"Sir, may I have a minute?" Harm finally got a word in.

The Admiral looked impatiently at his watch and sighed. "A minute, Commander. My office."

Despite the hard edge he heard in his CO's voice, Harm followed.

"Shut the door. Let's hear it."

Standing straight, his posture respectful, Harm recalled the last time he stood here in similar fashion. Commander, you're already bucking for an inquiry into your conduct – don't push it.

"Your minute is ticking away, Commander."

Brought back to the present, Harm blurted out, "Sir, I'd like to represent Corporal Karns."

Taking a seat behind his desk, Chegwidden put on his reading glasses and rifled through a stack of files before speaking. "Well, that's the last thing I expected."

Staring straight ahead, Harm remained stoic, not flinching at the not-so-subtle barb.

"Care to explain your motives, Commander? Never mind, I don't have time to be enlightened. The fact is the Vice President is pressuring the Sec Nav to deal with this expeditiously. He wants a speedy resolution to this latest debacle. Can you handle that?"

"Sir?"

"Representing Karns, Commander. It doesn't sound like any of your colleagues are anxious to do so. Hell, I'll have trouble finding someone to voluntarily sit second chair on this one."

"Sir, maybe I should explain—"

"Here's the file. You're excused from staff call."

"Sir?"

"Corporal Karns arrived in the States this morning. He's being held at Annacostia Brig. Go interview your client. Dismissed."

"Yes, Sir!"

Despite feeling like he had gone ten rounds in the ring, Harm turned sharply on his heel, performing a perfect about-face. Smirking with satisfaction, Chegwidden watched him leave knowing he now had strong advocates for both sides of what was likely a capital murder case.

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Hours later, Mac nearly collided with Harm as he stepped halfway off the elevator.

"I think I'll start taking the stairs," Harm muttered, using his foot to prevent the door from closing before Mac got onboard.

"Where've you been?"

"Annacostia Brig."

"So it's true. You volunteered to represent Karns."

Harm rubbed his forehead in hopes of easing his headache. "Yeah."

"Are you crazy?!"

"Sounds like you think I am."

"I'd say your actions pretty much confirm it. Oh, and by the way, you're being double teamed."

Harm blew out a deep breath. "Who's prosecuting?"

"Sturgis is sitting second to me."

Mac ignored Harm's groan and continued. "Set up a time. We'll discuss what it'll take to remove the death penalty from the table."

"Corporal Karns doesn't want to deal."

"You're kidding, right?"

Harm pursed his lips and shook his head. "He's pleading not guilty."

"What are you thinking?! Never mind, I don't have time for this."

"Okay, I'll see you in court," Harm replied amicably.

"Wait, I need to tell you something."

Harm raised any inquiring eyebrow as they finished switching places at the elevator.

"Umm…"

Harm shifted his heavy load to his other arm. "Spit it out, Mac. I have to get busy coming up with Karns' defense strategy, remember?"

"I can't believe you didn't convince him to deal."

"Mac, you're stalling. What did you want to tell me?"

"This is hard. I know you asked if I wanted to go flying with you over the holiday weekend, but …"

"But?"

"It's about Webb …"

Harm's eyes narrowed, the grooves of his brow deepening. "What about him?"

"He has connections with the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History and finagled me an invite to the Brabender site."

Harm's expression changed to one of total confusion.

"It's an archaeological site in Virginia where they found a pond containing the bones of at least three prehistoric Wooly Mammoths."

"I see," he said evenly. "You prefer old bones to tired bones," he added, hiding his disappointment with a little levity.

"I'm sorry, Harm. A chance like this doesn't come along often. Besides, now that Karns isn't going to deal, this whole case is going to become high profile. I think it's in everyone's best interest to keep some distance until it's over."

"Okay. We'll go another time."

"So you're alright with this?"

"Yeah."

"You're sure?"

"Mac, I understand."

The elevator doors closed bringing the discussion to a close. As Harm made his way down the hall, the expression on his face matched the slump of his shoulders.

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Needing a break, Harm stuck his head in Sturgis' office. "Judge Helfman called. She's commuted the last of my sentence to time served. So how about tomorrow night I collect on that beer you owe me?"

"Beer?" Sturgis asked distractedly.

"Yeah, you know -- your peace offering after the Petty Officer Moritz-Rule 502 fiasco, not to mention that 'in service to my pride' comment you made. Is any of this sounding familiar?" Harm teased, his mood brightened a little by his unexpected freedom.

"Oh yeah, sorry. My mind was elsewhere."

"Well?"

"You'll have to take a rain check."

"Okay. It's probably best I use the time to fix my air-conditioner anyway."

When Harm didn't move on, Sturgis gestured to the paperwork on his desk. "I'm kind of busy, Harm. Is there something else?"

"If you want it, I have an extra seat in the Stearman next weekend. I could collect on the beer afterwards."

"Fourth of July weekend? Sorry. Varese and I … well I think we have plans."

"Then you should keep them. Varese is prettier after all."

Sturgis broke eye contact and picked up the first file he could lay his hands on. "Harm, I'm swamped here."

"Sorry to bother you. Maybe another time then."

"Yeah, sure," he mumbled, intent on resuming his work.

Contemplating whether there was a pattern of behavior developing or if it was just his imagination, Harm made his way down the hall. Deep in thought, he was met at his office door by Harriet who thrust a file into his hands.

"Those are copies of Corporal Karns' pre-trial agreement, Commander." Not waiting for a response, she quickly headed off in the opposite direction.

Harm watched her departing back. "Definitely a pattern."

Feeling like the black sheep of the flock, Harm retreated inside his office. Closing the blinds and door, he settled behind his desk, took a deep breath, and began running through possible defense strategies.

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"Okay, Corporal, I've reviewed the evidence the prosecution turned over on discovery."

Sitting across from his medium-built, orange-clad client, Harm flipped to a clean sheet on his yellow legal pad. He then opened the first of several manila files and pulled a DVD from its paper sleeve.

"The ZNN video is the most damning. It's been certified as being unedited. Meaning we can't claim it's been altered."

Harm popped the DVD into the portable player on the table. Within seconds the small screen came to life with the clip ZNN had been playing relentlessly on its newscasts. This copy, however, was without the intentional blurring of the most disturbing parts as required by the FCC for public viewing.

Harm watched the graphic video again for the hundredth time; Karns for the second, if you counted the original enactment.

The incriminating scenes unfolded.

The sun, positioned low on the horizon, backlit six marines from Charlie Company as they rose to their feet and scampered towards the nearest hillock. Four more marines entered the wide-angle picture from the left. The snap, crackle, pop of small arms fire mixed with indistinguishable shouting, both close and afar.

That which precipitated the actions of Captain Marco Marvelle and Corporal Kenneth Karns was unclear on the clip. But it clearly showed Marvelle stopping and turning towards the middle; Karns doing the same from the opposite side.

While the other marines dove for cover from the Taliban rebels, the two standing men held their positions, their weapons pointed at each other.

Two seconds later, the flash from Karns' gun was caught by the camera. Immediately afterwards Marvelle began jerking like a manic puppet.

Sensing a Pulitzer in his future, Robert Haskins, the ZNN reporter, centered the camera on Captain Marvelle's twitching body. When it came to rest face down in the dirt, the lens zoomed in on his ravaged back, already a mass of red from the exiting M16 rounds.

"You shot him!" someone screamed off screen.

Harm punched the stop button on the player when the footage ended abruptly, reportedly because Karns had used the butt of his rifle to disable the camera.

"Ballistics testing confirms a round lodged in the Captain's chest was fired from your weapon."

Clearly agitated, Karns squirmed in his seat, his manacled hands clenching and unclenching. "It was self defense!"

"Ballistics also confirms Marvelle didn't fire his weapon."

Karns pounded both fists against the table. "The moron was squeezing his trigger. I can't help it if I was quicker than the efffen-bastard!"

"Stand down, Corporal! Sitting in the brig doesn't give you a pass on military decorum. I suggest you dial back the inappropriate language."

The younger man glared at Harm in response to the reprimand. Not totally ignorant that he had few supporters in his corner, he was the first to break the eye-to-eye standoff. "Sorry … 'Sir.'"

Harm ignored the childish challenge. Instead he pointed to the video screen. "I had a video specialist enhance that view. It's inconclusive if Marvelle's trigger finger moved or not."

"It moved!"

Harm made a note on his pad. "Why did you stop on the hill?"

The cords on Karns' neck bulged, his face turning another shade redder. "Cause that effen Marvelle did!"

Harm shot the man another warning look then shook his head. "I don't understand."

With the table forming a natural barrier, Karns leaned forward, closing what distance he could between himself and Harm. "Marvelle told me to watch my back because sure as it was Charlie Company's last day in the boonies it would be my last day on earth."

"He threatened you?"

"Sure sounded like it to me! … Sir … Effen bastard."

Harm moved on, not entirely sure towards whom Karns directed the repetitive invective. "The prosecution also obtained reports from men in your unit who claim you and Captain Marvelle had run-ins before."

"No secrets there. Marvelle was always on my case about one thing or another."

"Did he apply the same standards to the other men under his command?"

"If you ask me, he singled me out."

"Why would he do that?"

"Who knows, maybe cause I caught him jacking-off in his tent."

Harm pulled opened another manila file. "Your fit-reps aren't anything to be proud of."

"What do you expect? Marvelle completed them."

"Only half of them. You obtained similar scores from Major Toohey well before Marvelle arrived."

"I wasn't happy. Enlisting was a mistake." Karns' voice trailed away. He remained quiet, staring at a blank wall. His dark eyes narrowed in the ensuing silence -- the expression on his face running the gamut of contemplation, confusion, and consternation. Fighting an internal battle, he shifted uneasily in his chair before settling in place and shifting his unseeing gaze back to Harm. "Finishing my stint would have been a lot easier if Marvelle had left me alone."

Holding the vacant stare, Harm studied his client. When he didn't elaborate, Harm asked, "Can you give me examples of how Captain Marvelle antagonized you?"

Returning from wherever his mind had been, he answered, "You're going to need a full tablet."

Harm sighed and pulled one from his briefcase. Assuming the information Karns was about to detail would be confirmed by others, the result could be either a blessing or curse. On one hand, being provoked could be grounds for a lesser charge; on the other hand, the prosecution could easily turn it into motive for pre-meditative murder.

-----------------------------

Harm left the confines of Annacostia Brig with more questions than answers; more obstacles than openings; and more doubts than assurances.

He also exited the gates undecided as to whether he should call it a day or return to the office -- the stifling summer heat at home sounding as unpalatable as the cool atmosphere of his colleagues at JAG headquarters. He no sooner came to a decision when he slammed on his brakes, somehow avoiding the surge of cameramen, news personalities, and curiosity seekers engulfing his car -- each seeking more details on the hottest story around.

Harm's head pivoted around. The view beyond the car was limited to a sea of tangled arms that were thrusting cameras, recorders, and microphones his way. An unending stream of questions tumbled over one another, muffled by the closed windows and the pounding on the hood, roof, and trunk of the Navy-issued sedan.

"Commander, did Corporal Karns give any indication why he murdered his CO?" … "Is he going to plead to avoid the death penalty?" … "Is he showing any remorse?" … "Has he made a statement?" … "Is this case going to help or hurt your career?" … "What do you think about defending the guilty?" … "Can you confirm rumors the Secretary of the Navy wants a quick resolution? … Do you sleep well at night?"

"Damn," Harm swore under his breath, shifting the car to 'park' lest his foot slip off the brake of the rocking car. While pulling out his phone to call for assistance from the MP shack fifty yards away, the front windshield erupted into a spider web of cracks. The cavalry arrived on their own by the time the back window shattered.

It took ten men and an equal amount of minutes to restore a semblance of order to the riotous scene, the chaos exacerbated by two drunken hecklers and a vocal protest group in favor of the death penalty.

"Commander, are you all right?" one of two MPs tasked with Harm's safety asked.

Reseating his cover, Harm exited the car. "I'm fine. But I'm going to need alternate transportation."

"We'll have someone take care of this one and escort you back inside the fencing."

"Thanks," he said, looking around.

The congested traffic was slowly being diverted around him. D.C. police were culling the last of the unruly protesters from the sidewalk – a sidewalk that still contained numerous credentialed members of the media.

Harm sighed. Mac was right. This case was high profile.

Retrieving his briefcase from the front seat, he nodded to his bodyguards that he was ready to navigate the gauntlet standing between him and the gates of the penal compound. As he knew it would, the barrage of questions from the reporters and jeers from the remaining crowd started again as he approached. Hoping to diffuse a reoccurrence of the ugly scene, Harm stopped and faced the media, knowing it was best to give them something, even if that something was nothing. He honed in on the loudest question heard above the din.

"Commander, can you give us a statement regarding the charges against your client?"

"It's premature for me to comment specifically at this time," Harm answered.

"Do you think Karns has already been found guilty in the court of public opinion?"

'What the hell do you think?' Harm thought. Instead he answered, "He's not being tried there."

"So you're saying the case is going to trial?" another reporter persisted.

"As I said before, it's premature for me to comment. Thank you for your time." With that, Harm let the two MPs do their jobs and hustle him safely back inside the grounds of Annacostia Brig.

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In the throes of his latest dream, Harm flexed his cramped right hand, while his left rifled through page after page of a yellow legal pad. The dizzying array of words detailed specific instances of Captain Marvelle's behavior. Some of which were classic, hard-nosed, marine-grade motivational techniques; others not so clear cut. Depending on what side of the fence they fell, they could be construed as either mitigating in nature or fodder for retaliation.

His voice echoed in the room, every word reverberating off the walls closing in. "Corporal, now would be the time to reconsider making a deal. It'll take the death penalty off the table."

Karns' eyes narrowed to slits as he curled in on himself. His nose flared, and he pulled his lips tight against his teeth, forming a sinister snarl. "I won't serve a life sentence," he hissed. And then he pounced from across the table, his claw-like fingers encircling Harm's neck. "NOT WHEN HE DESERVED IT! … DESERVED IT … DESERVED … IT …"

Grappling for Karns' wrists amidst a dozen sets of unidentified arms, Harm's coning vision and choked-off screams woke him as his fingers continued grasping nothing but the stifling air in his bedroom. Rolling to a sitting position, he buried his face in his hands, and concentrated on taking deep breaths to quiet his hammering heart. "Damn it."

Needing to quiet his conflicted mind as well, he automatically reached for his running shoes. But when he stepped into the hallway to set off on another nocturnal journey, he stopped short. The shadows spilling from an open door at the end off the hall beckoned more than those of the starlit night.

"Saw you on the eleven o'clock news," Joe said, not looking up from taking measurements.

"Is that so," Harm replied casually from the doorway, wondering how the man knew it was him.

The old man, more clean-shaven than Harm remembered from before, looked up and pointed towards a cooler on the floor. "Take a load off."

Unsure if he was being offered a beverage or just a place to sit, Harm opted for the latter and eased himself onto the blue cooler.

Using a pencil to mark the floor of what was now a gutted room, Joe paused. "Whole thing sorta reminds me of a poem I once knew."

"Yeah? Remember any of it?" Harm asked, tilting his head to give the man his attention.

"I'm old but not dead yet," he answered more amicably than the last time he perceived his abilities being questioned.

Harm waited while Joe searched his 78 year old brain. A snap of his calloused thumb and forefinger gave rise to a pointed finger and melodic soliloquy.

"Our fathers claimed, by obvious madness moved, man is innocent until his guilt is proved. They would have known, had they not been confused, he's innocent until he is accused."

Before Harm could comment, Joe continued. "Same guy wrote -- I think that I shall never see a billboard lovely as a tree. Indeed, unless the billboards fall, I'll never see a tree at all."

When the handyman didn't start on a third rhyme, Harm said, "Ogden Nash."

"What?"

"Ogden Nash – he's the poet you just quoted."

"Hmm … Not sure I ever knew his name," Joe said, rubbing his back after pulling himself to his feet. "Anyway, did he get it right?"

"About billboards? Yeah."

"And presumption of innocence?"

Harm leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees as he tried to reconcile the man's intellectual insight with his incongruent rough edges.

"Well?"

"I can't talk about the case, Joe."

"Then quit sitting there and help me carry a load up from my van."

--------------------

Harm failed to stifle a yawn while watching the lights above the elevator for any indication it was returning to the ground floor.

"Moonlighting, Commander?"

Harm immediately closed his mouth. "Admiral! Good morning." Straightening his bearing, his mind tried to grasp the question asked while his gaze shifted from the elevator to Admiral Chegwidden next to him. "Uh…No, Sir. Just up late."

Chegwidden produced a handkerchief and dampened it at the water fountain. "You've got a streak of paint on the back of your neck."

Harm sheepishly accepted the wet cloth and scrubbed the general vicinity. "Must have missed a spot showering."

Seeing his officer stare oddly at the red smudge that transferred from his neck to the cloth, Chegwidden's eyes narrowed. "Good Lord. It is paint, is it not?"

Startled out of his reverie, Harm nodded. "Yes, Sir."

The Admiral's expression remained doubtful. "The Karns case has tempers flaring."

Harm shrugged. "That's one way of putting it." Folding over the handkerchief, he took a second swipe at his neck. "Any word on when the case will be on the docket?"

"Next Thursday. Will you be ready?"

"There's a lot of work still to be done, but I'll be ready."

Chegwidden studied his tired officer. "Sorry you volunteered?"

Harm thought for a long moment before answering, "No, Sir."

Before either could elaborate, the elevator arrived, the doors opening to reveal a Marine Colonel on a mission. A quick 'as you were' from the Admiral forestalled a more formal greeting.

"Admiral, Commander," Mac replied, waiting impatiently for them to vacate the spot she wanted.

"Hey, Mac."

"Saw you on the news, Harm. I'd say wrecking a government sedan is a bad omen."

"That's one interpretation of what happened. Then again, appearances can be deceiving," Harm said, placing the stained handkerchief squarely in Chegwidden's open waiting hand.

Half of her wanting to inquire about the odd exchange between the two men, Mac's other half replied instead, "Oooh, cryptic. But it's still an open and shut case."

Harm smirked as they swapped places, and he stepped into the elevator. "Sometimes the guilty aren't always as guilty as the prosecution makes them out."

Mac was about to banter back when the Admiral cleared his throat, the semi-verbal interruption unmistakably meaning, 'Save it for the courtroom'. He then nodded towards the 30-something year old woman standing behind Mac. The red glow on her face indicated she had heard the exchange; the 'Visitor' tag clipped to her lapel identified her status.

"Can I help you, Ma'am?" Harm was the first to ask.

"You're Commander Rabb." It was a statement, not a question.

Harm answered nevertheless. "Yes, Ma'am."

"I'm Melissa Marvelle. I saw you on the evening news."

Harm sighed and pursed his lips tightly, his expression a mix of resignation and embarrassment.

Her own face turning red, Mac extended her hand in greeting. "Ms. Marvelle. I was on my way down to meet you." Turning to Harm and the Admiral, she stated for their sake in case it wasn't clear. "Ms. Marvelle is Captain Marvelle's sister."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Admiral Chegwidden said, making room for both women to enter the elevator.

Neatly dressed, albeit from clothes more likely from Walmart than Nordstrom's, and wearing a cheap perfume that filled the tight confines with an overpowering scent, the woman looked at Harm while replying, "Thank you, Admiral."

Introductions and condolences finished, the elevator rose in thick silence. Amidst the awkward tension, Mac attempted to ease the strain.

"Ms. Marvelle is from Girard, Virginia. She asked to meet to see what can be done to expedite the release of the Captain's body for burial," she explained, not consciously intending to cast Harm in the role of culprit for that delay, but nonetheless, accomplishing just that.

The doors opened none too soon, letting in fresh air and providing blessed egress. "I intend to sign off as soon as forensics submits their final analysis," Harm assured them, hoping for Mac's hasty departure with the deceased's sister in tow. Instead his salvation came by way of a very frustrated Petty Officer Tiner needing his immediate attention. "Commander, I can't find the last brief you wrote for Judge Helfman, and she wants it 'now'."

"I'll get it for you," Harm said following on Tiner's heels, grateful for any reason to be out of the path of the daggers shooting from Melissa Melville's eyes and beyond reach of the unpleasant aroma she wore.

------------------  
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------------------ 

During the Vietnam War, when there were far fewer cameras shooting irrefutable video in the field, it was said troops in combat found uncomplicated methods to deal with psycho officers. They simply killed them in the heat of battle; their actions going unobserved, enabling them to avoid the legal entanglements of murder. Such was not the case for Corporal Karns. The first morning of his trial, Harm was still bolstering his strategy for a claim of self defense.

The claim might have been stronger if Captain Marvelle hadn't been an exemplary leader in the eyes of most. It might have been stronger if his unit hadn't completed their tour with far fewer casualties than any other to date. And it might have been stronger if Corporal Karns had fit the picture of the squared-away marine. On the other hand, 'most' eyes meant not all; 'far fewer' casualties didn't mean none; and Karns had, up until that fateful day, avoided getting thrown in the brig.

To Harm each scrap amounted to having something to work with; something with which to do his job; something to put a sliver of doubt in the panel's thinking. It would be the prosecution's job to prevent that sliver from becoming a wedge. So for the umpteenth time, Harm sifted through the mounds of paper, looking for anything more that might cast a shadow on the obvious. Mac chose that moment to knock and step into in his office.

"Give it a rest, Harm. You've been at this for days. It's hopeless."

Harm's eyes narrowed. He got to his feet, walked by her, and stuck his head out his door. "Lieutenant Sims, do you have those depositions I requested."

Harriet smiled, "Sorry, Sir. Commander Turner pulled me off that for some things he needs first." The lilt in her voice continued. "His list is long -- really long. I'm not sure when I'll be able to get those for you."

Mac didn't miss the venomous glance Harm shot down the hall towards Sturgis' office. "Fine, I'll get them myself," he said, taking off with a purposeful stride, Mac close on his heels.

"Harm, there's nothing to be gained by working yourself into the ground, and for what?"

Harm stopped short then spun around on the balls of his feet. With hands on his hips, he towered over Mac, glaring down at her. "Don't worry about me, Colonel! Let me do my job while you start worrying more about doing yours!

--------------------

Stepping into the under-construction apartment, Joe nearly dropped the heavy box of tiles. "I said 30 inches … not 36!" he panted.

With level in his left hand and tape measure in his right, Harm looked up from where he was working. "But –"

"No buts … Thirty inches."

Harm shook his head and shrugged. "Okay. You're the boss."

"And don't you forget it … young … know-it-all … can't take orders …" Joe muttered breathlessly.

"If I wanted this much abuse, I could have stayed at work."

The old man didn't continue the banter. Instead he retrieved a bottle of beer from his ever-present cooler. Replacing the lid, he took a seat and pulled out the newspaper he had tucked in his pants. Harm proceeded to snap blue chalk lines on the wall, letting Joe partake in the liquid refreshment and peruse the evening newspaper. The companionable routine was broken once Joe regained his second wind. Folding back a page of interest, he asked, "Score many points today?"

"No. Just like yesterday, it felt like every one of my objections was overruled; while every one of the prosecution's was sustained."

Joe tapped the paper. "If it's any consolation, this particular reporter doesn't care for the good Colonel's doo."

Harm's expression turned questioning. "Huh?"

"As in hairdo," Joe clarified. "Quote – Fortunately, Colonel Sarah MacKenzie's legal aptitude is significantly sounder than the ill-coiffed hairstyle she sports. Her prosecutorial style so far has trampled the opposition."

Harm smirked. "Trampled, huh?"

"You weren't trampled?"

"It doesn't matter. I haven't had my turn yet."

"I know." Joe pointed to another headline and read, "Commander Without Conscience Caters to Guilty Coward"; Sub-heading – "Prosecution Rests, Defense Starts Tomorrow." The article was accompanied by a picture of Harm surrounded by an aggressive swarm of reporters seeking a comment. Joe chuckled. "At least you escaped without bodily harm, Harm."

Harm shook his head at the variation of the too-often heard quip and smirked. "Yeah, it just felt like every civilian in the courtroom was throwing emotional grenades my way."

"Just the civilians?" Joe asked before taking a pull from the longneck bottle.

"Is this okay?" Harm asked, ignoring the perceptive question and pointing to the blue lines that ran parallel precisely 30 inches above the floor.

Joe wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're no Norm Abrams, but it'll do."

"Funny. What's next? We can't start drilling. The other tenants will complain."

"No problem. I left you twenty more boxes of these tiles to bring up. Have fun."

Feeling like one of Tom Sawyer's whitewashing minions, Harm grinned. "Fine. But once I get them up here, I think I'll be ready to return to bed and maybe catch some quality sleep."

-----------------

"Objection! Irrelevant," Mac interrupted the witness on the stand.

"Overruled. I'll allow it." Judge Helfman looked to her right. "You may continue, Sergeant."

Sergeant Peter McCreary nodded. "Thank you, Ma'am … As I was saying, earlier that week, groups of men began gradually transitioning out of camp, making their way back to Bagram to be processed home. It was a little nerve wracking, you know -- waiting for your turn to get back to relative safety. The closer your day got, the harder it became."

Harm approached his fifth defense witness of the day. Eerily, the marine's eyes never wavered from Melissa Marvelle. Positioned prominently behind the prosecution's table, the woman's own eyes glowered, constantly shifting from McCreary to Corporal Karns to Harm. Completing the circuit, Karns' eyes remained glued on the sergeant, as they had on every witness thus far.

It was subtle, but with each subsequent witness for the defense, no one could deny the tone of the proceedings had changed. Mac's impatient tapping of her pen, growing murmurs in the gallery, the deepening furrows on the brow of the deceased's sister, the heightened attention of Karns' peers who sat in judgment of him on the panel, and the increasing number of objections ruled in Harm's favor were all ramifications of the tide shifting.

"Sergeant McCreary, can you describe Captain Marvelle's demeanor his last week in country?" Harm asked.

"Objection! Again, relevance?" Mac spoke up.

Harm looked at Judge Helfman. "It goes to the Captain's state of mind."

"Sustained," Helfman disagreed with Harm's logic.

Failing on that particular approach, Harm took another route. "Sergeant, what was your specialty in the unit?"

"Communications, Sir."

"You were in pretty close contact with Captain Marvelle then?"

"Yes, Sir. More so as our time in country grew short."

"Why was that?"

"The Captain wanted to stay informed about any possibilities of Taliban activities in the area."

"Wasn't that normal?"

"It was, Sir. But it was as if he wanted there to be activity; when there wasn't, he grew more irritable."

"Objection! Witness can't read minds," Mac interjected.

"Sustained," Helfman agreed with Mac.

Not to be deterred, Harm pushed on. "Sergeant, what happened when you finally passed along to Captain Marvelle a report indicating there was a suspected group of Taliban insurgents in the hills west of your location?"

"Captain Marvelle moved up the departure of the last group."

"And did your egress back to the safety of Bagram Air Base require you travel near the suspected Taliban location?"

"Yes, Sir."

"So Captain Marvelle intentionally put the last group in danger?" Harm clarified.

"OBJECTION! Leading the witness!"

"I have no further questions for this witness," Harm said quickly before Judge Helfman could formally sustain his dubious tactic.

Presumptuously, Mac jumped to her feet. "Redirect, your honor?!"

Judge Helfman looked at her watch and then at the list of six witnesses Harm still intended to call.

"It's late. Redirect will take place on Tuesday. Court is adjourned until after the holiday weekend." And with that the gavel came down, seemingly punctuating the last point won by the defense.

Mac quickly gathered her papers and stuffed them haphazardly into her briefcase. She would have to wait three days for her chance at McCreary. Angry, she hurried out of the courtroom, brushing by Harm with no desire to associate with him. It remained to be seen if the ground he gained would fester in the minds of the panel over the long Fourth of July weekend, or if the damage would be long forgotten when court resumed.

As she departed, the electricity in the air was palpable. Half the MP's present took charge of securing Corporal Karns. The other half escorted Sergeant McCreary out through a service door. The last to remain on the litigation side of the dividing wooden banisters was Harm. Alone, he prepared to navigate the other side still filled with mulling media and contentious civilians.

-------------------

For Mac, the weekend wasn't playing out as expected. Clayton Webb had been called away on a covert op, virtually taking her ticket to the Smithsonian's archaeological site with him. There would be no wooly mammoths to fill her three days of respite from work. Sitting coiled on the couch, she momentarily considered calling Harm. Her lingering irritation, however, immediately squelched any such notion. Instead, she picked up the remote and began channel surfing for something other than the normal Friday night programming.

Across town, his son already in bed, Bud Roberts made small talk. "Tell me again why we didn't plan one of our JAG picnics?"

Harriet shrugged. "Bud, don't push it."

"My rehabilitation?"

Harriet glared, plopping down next to him. "No."

Bud in turn sat up straighter, his excitement getting the better of him. "It's short notice, but we still could you know."

"We're keeping this a family weekend and that's final." Harriet reached for the remote, signaling there would be no further discussion of the idea.

At that same time, Sturgis Turner flicked rapidly through the channels on his extended digital cable service. Additions to Varese's touring schedule negated what slim chance there had been for the two of them to connect over the weekend. Without a suitable drinking companion, he reached for another bottle of beer and settled on a channel.

Thus it was that three households simultaneously selected a program offering live Independence Day commentary about the hard fought rights and freedoms enjoyed in the United States.

In a cheesy ploy, the show's intense commentator stepped boldly upon a wooden crate clearly marked 'soapbox'.

"And that brings us to 'presumption of innocence'. It's not a principle covered explicitly in the U.S. Constitution. But make no mistake about it people – 'presumption of innocence' is, without a doubt, consistent with the intent of not one, not two, but rather three of our Amendments – the fifth … sixth … and … fourteenth." To drive her point home, the woman raised three fingers in succession, each additional digit accentuating the number of amendments cited.

"Why then is insanity reigning over the airwaves and on the pages of our most respected newspapers?"

Following a dramatic pause, she continued. "I'm talking about the case of Corporal Karns, people. Who amongst us hasn't heard of him? If you believe today's media machine, he's not the 'presumed innocent'-- he's the antithesis of such a notion. He's been kicked around by the fourth estate, and his attorney is being raked over the coals."

Behind the woman, a rear projection screen showed slides and silent clips of inflammatory headlines and disreputable behavior supporting her claims. She fell silent when the camera focused solely on the last image – a headline in 48 point font taken from the op-ed page of the Washington Post asking, "How can he defend the guilty?" It was centered over a head shot of Harm in his cover and summer whites.

When the camera returned to the woman, she had stepped off the box and moved to a new spot not backlit by the distracting images. Positioned straight on, the lens zoomed in on her face before she continued speaking directly to the viewers.

"If you had a loved one who, for whatever reason, committed a crime, would you ask their lawyer that same question? Would you ask him -- How can you do that?"

"I doubt few of us would. So why then are Corporal Karns, the supposed 'presumed innocent', and his attorney being subjected to such prejudice in our country? I don't pretend to know the answer to that question."

"I do know, however, that as we begin our Independence Day celebration, I can think of no more fitting expression of our country's appreciation for the sacrifices of our servicemen than to grant them the same rights they defend for us."

"Let due process and the court decide Corporal Karns' fate. Let Commander Rabb do his job which is, one -- to make sure the prosecution proves its case; and two -- to run interference between his client, the 'presumed innocent', and those trying to send 'presumed innocent' to death row."

"If we as a society trivialize the judicial process, then we will be the victim of that trivialization -- because if you trivialize if for the criminal, you trivialize it for the private citizen. Or let me put it to you this way -- if burden of proof, presumption of innocence, and beyond a reasonable doubt don't apply to everyone, then they don't apply to anyone."

"Good night and have a safe weekend."

--------------------------

The ringing phones went unanswered, both landline and cell. There was no one in the apartment south of Union Station to take the calls. There hadn't been for hours. Thus the familiar voices left messages of contrition on a machine. Acceptance or rejection of their sincere apologies, offers, and invites would have to wait; leaving their guilt to percolate in the evening summer heat.

Three hours earlier and miles away, that same heat radiated off the cracked asphalt surface of the abandoned midway. It had never been a Disney World, Six Flags, or other huge corporate wonderland. It was an amusement park whose quirky, low-tech attractions appealed to thrill-seekers on a smaller scale, drawing upon clientele living within an hour's drive. It had been a place where it took less than three hours for families to enjoy all the rides and attractions. It had been a place where they could count on running into a neighbor, co-worker, or friend. A place where older children were allowed to run free and picnic baskets sat unattended.

That's what it had been.

Now a battered sign lay propped against a rusty security fence. Thriving weeds were reclaiming every patch of dirt. Both visuals attested to its current defunct status. As did the missing rides – sold for scrap or spare parts to competitors. The recently bulldozed outhouses, pavilions, and concession stands lay in heaps on the ground. Only one building remained standing. Bright yellow stickers affixed prominently to its exterior warned against trespassing and announced its scheduled demolition date.

Standing amidst the desolation, Harm scanned the area for anyone who might be witnessing the unfolding scene. Meanwhile Joe upended the barely readable sign with his boot, its faded lettering announcing, 'Marvelle Amusement Park – Marvelous Marvels Abound'.

"Place isn't looking so marvelous now," he scoffed.

"Shut up old man!"

"Now you look missy—"

"It's Melissa! Not missy! And unless you want this blade embedded in your back, I suggest you two continue moving to the back of the building."

Reluctant to move out of the open area, Harm stalled, pretending to be interested in the building's front façade.

Beneath the peeling paint, the structure had numerous cartoon-like angles and ornate 'gingerbread' details. There was little doubt the bizarre embellishments were intended to lure patrons inside the funhouse. Now, however, the large round eyes that once rotated whimsically in the two front windows were motionless. Their frozen glare as cold as the madness about to enter -- madness in the form of Melissa Marvelle.

The unstable woman had high-tailed it out of the courtroom at the end of the day's proceedings. She had brushed aside all small talk, determined to run some needed errands and get to Harm's apartment before he did. She managed to do so. Finding the old man there was a blessing, his presence simplifying her orchestrated plan. For whereas Harm's physical stature might have proved problematic, the handyman, with his small size and added years, provided her blackmail fodder -- a trump card to exhort Harm's cooperative behavior. In addition, the man's van provided a vehicle not easily traced back to her or the Commander.

With Harm driving and Joe in the passenger seat, Melissa had sat behind them with a hidden knife held ready to slice the old man's throat. Such was how they had made their way unnoticed from D.C. to the premises of the amusement park where they now stood too visible for her liking.

"Move!" she ordered, brandishing the knife more confidently. "Single file. The Commander goes first."

The alignment put Joe in the middle as she brought up the rear. "Don't do anything stupid or I'll use the knife."

Upon arrival at the isolated back door, she removed a key from around her neck and opened the heavy padlock that secured the place from vagrants.

The open door released hot air carrying smells of musty wood and grease, along with subtle undertones of body odor and vomit. With power cut off long ago, the solidly built interior was dimly lit by what early evening light filtered in through cracks in the deteriorating roof and the flashlight the woman produced. Their non-traditional entrance point put them at the revolving 'Barrel of Fun', its smooth, convex, maple insides showing the wear of decades of tumbling bodies.

"There's a maintenance passage to the right. Follow it."

The route bypassed the steep ramp leading to the top of the wide, wooden slide. Still hanging were side-by-side signs instructing folks to 'Take a burlap bag.' and 'Don't walk up the slide.'

More labyrinth passages led them to the floor planks that once moved alternately backwards and forwards, their aim to knock visitors off balance and turn legs to rubber. Without power to drive the gears beneath them, they now moved little as the three sets of feet scuffed over them. Stepping off the hard planks and onto the 'Walk of Dead Bodies' with its ten foot long expanse of spongy under-footing, their feet unleashed undisturbed dust into the air and took them deeper into the funhouse.

Behind him, Harm heard Joe wheezing, his breathing irritated by the fouled air. Coughing himself, Harm used his arm to breakthrough thick cobwebs hanging in the doorway leading into the room of distorting mirrors. Under different circumstances, their exaggerated Laurel and Hardy-like caricatures would have produced laughter.

"How you doing?" Harm asked, turning around when he saw the old man's reflection stumble.

"Don't worry bout me … not gonna let no … screw-loose loony get … the better of Joe Morton," he ground out determinedly between gasps for fresher air.

Her face glistening with perspiration, Melissa chuckled. The chortling fit ominously with the mirrors eerily elongating the knife gripped in her hand. "Keep moving. We're almost there."

At the iron prison bars, Harm found the one made of rubber, pulled it aside, and squeezed through. The others followed suit. One more turn, another set of bars, and they were there. 'There' being the Slanted Room.

Purplish lighting no longer illuminated the weird designs painted on the walls in light receptive paint. But the wooden floor, staked out with a maze of waist-high pipes, remained at a steep angle. Without benefit of the pipes, bodies would slide down the slope, coming to rest at the bottom wall.

Once at the room's highest point, Melissa braced her feet and ordered, "Stop."

Having secured her footing, she quickly snapped two sets of handcuffs around the closest section of horizontal piping.

"You won't get away with this," Harm warned, eyeing the two open cuffs that were left dangling from the pipes.

In silent reply, she pulled Joe back against her, holding him in a choke hold. With the point of the knife pressing against his temple, she extracted a bead of blood and a moan. "Cuff yourself. And ratchet it tight."

Before she could inflict further damage upon the innocent man, Harm did as commanded, securing his left wrist. When he was done, Joe was shoved his way. Using his right arm, Harm caught him before he toppled over. "Cuff him too or I'll skewer him where he stands."

"Let her!" Joe spat, calling her bluff. "She doesn't have … the stomach … to kill us outright."

Unwilling to gamble with another man's life, Harm chose the option that guaranteed they would live at least a little longer. It was an option that left them tethered to the pipe independent of each other, with the ability to move a few feet horizontally across the room, but little more.

Joe pulled feebly at the cuff locked around his wrist. "Damnit … Harm," he panted, "Why'd … you do that?"

"The Commander must have a few brain cells after all," Melissa sneered, moving further out onto the canted floor, her position leaving her standing below them. "Then again, he just assured you a slower death."

"Why?" Harm asked succinctly for the tenth time since being coerced from his apartment.

Secure in the knowledge both men were now in no position to steal her vengeance, Melissa faced them, propping her butt against a lower pipe as she looked upwards at them.

"Jorgenson versus Marvelle. The sniveling momma's boy panicked in the Dodgem rink. He left his cart to go running to his mother. Before the operator could shut down the power, the boy's leg was broken when one of the carts collided with him. A smartass lawyer played on the sympathy of the jury and they awarded the family a quarter million dollars -- a quarter million dollars for a freaking broken leg!"

"My mother was never the same after that. She died six months later."

"Dad tried to carry on without her. And for a while he did. Until 'Skibinski versus Marvelle'. Some idiot teenager intentionally shot his sister's eye out with one of the air rifles at the Duck Shooting Gallery. That family's smooth talking lawyer extracted a million from the jury."

Melissa's voice became more bitter, her retelling of the details fuelling her own fire. "It was too much stress for Dad. He suffered a fatal heart attack and my brother sought a more stable future in the military."

"I held on though for years, struggling to pay the skyrocketing insurance premiums. My lawyer advised me to close down the funhouse, citing it was a plaintiff's paradise fraught with lawsuit potential around every corner." The woman shook her head. "Gone were the days when people just laughed about bumping into walls in a dark corridor or getting dizzy and falling on their ass from a spinning floor. But without the funhouse revenues, I'd be unable to maintain other operations. So I kept it open."

When the woman fell silent, lost in her own thoughts, Harm moved closer to Joe, helping him to a sitting position on the sloped floor. Due to the handcuff, his left arm remained raised as if in a perpetual state of questioning. But it also afforded the tired old man something with which to rest his head against.

The commotion brought the woman back from wherever she had gone and she laughed – her cackling more maniacal than merry. Then with an expression that could wither the most courageous, she continued. "Yes, I kept the funhouse open -- until 'Frederick versus Marvelle'. The woman's lawyer convinced the jury to a tune of three million that his client had suffered irreparable emotional damage after someone groped her in the Tunnel of Terror."

"That's when you finally had to sell out?" Harm asked.

"Sell out?" the woman scoffed. "There was no selling out. The bank foreclosed. I didn't get a penny out of the deal. Nothing. I lost everything. Now someone else is developing the land for condominiums."

"Still, I don't see what this has to do with me."

"YOU DON'T!?" The cords on her neck tightened, her bulging eyes never leaving Harm. "You're just like them! Like those smart, smooth talking lawyers who made mountains out of mole hills, who twisted the truth to suit their needs. And their needs cost me my mother and my father!"

"But—"

"Shut up! I'm not done!"

She moved closer to Harm, as if proximity would add credence to her words. "My brother was the last person I had left. And then he was taken from me -- murdered. MURDERED! And you -- YOU with your righteousness, eloquent talk, and cheap lawyer tricks -- are going to have everyone believing that he was to blame! That somehow he was the one at fault! And I can't let that happen … I won't let that happen!"

Melissa flung her arm in a sweeping arc. Before Harm could react, the silver blade she held made contact with his side. A fiery spark instantly ignited the nerve endings, transmitting scorching agony to his brain. "Ugh! … ugh …" Then a streak of red appeared through his uniform. Grasping his side in a one-handed hug, he saw the wielded knife come at him again. He lurched clumsily to his left; the knife slicing only air before Melissa raised it again. Regaining his feet, Harm stumbled parallel with the rail, pulling his handcuffed arm and metal cuff with him. But the evasive route ended when a pipe, running perpendicular to the floor, prevented further flight.

Spinning around to face his oncoming pursuer, his fight instincts kicked in. With a kick boxing move, he knocked the weapon from Melissa's hand as it came down. The bloody blade skittered down the sloped floor, leaving a trail of red splatter in its wake before coming to rest against the bottom wall.

No longer under imminent attack, Harm doubled over, sinking slowly to his knees. Joe moved to his side to help, their white faces a matched pair.

Her nose flaring, the crazed woman looked at her empty hands before her eyes settled on the growing stain from Harm's injury. "No matter. I've accomplished what I wanted."

"You won't … get away … with this," Harm ground out, unconsciously tugging on the handcuff holding his left arm aloft.

"You're wrong. The old man doesn't have the stamina to survive until Tuesday, and with that wound you won't either. When the demolition crew returns on Tuesday, they'll find the door padlocked and will have no reason to look inside. After bulldozing the building, they might never find your bodies."

Confident she had won, Melissa deftly navigated to the bottom of the Slanted Room. There she picked up the knife, wiped it clean of fingerprints, and tossed it aside. Making her way to the room's exit, she paused to turn around, her face reflecting calm satisfaction. "The Fourth of July weekend was always our most lucrative. I guess this is poetic justice."

-------------------  
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-------------------

Joe pursed his parched lips while studying the hole in the ceiling. It ran straight through to an opening in the roof. After months of neglect, the slit had allowed rain to leave its brown watermark on the crumbling plaster slats above him and on the oak floor boards upon which he sat. Now the widened gap served as the room's only light source – a source that was fading quickly. Turning his attention from the view above to Harm, he mumbled, "Sun has almost set."

Weakened by shock, Harm nodded wearily. He knew he needed to deal with the injury before darkness prevented him from doing so. Having little light left, he opened his eyes and gritted his teeth. Holding his breath, he eased his free hand off the sticky dampness before slowly tugging his uniform blouse and undershirt loose from his pants. With perspiration and dirt streaking his face, he paused, psyching himself to continue.

With a nod of encouragement from Joe, he pulled both shirts up for a closer look. When the gaping cut was revealed, the old man's eyes widened. "Damn, son. That's not good."

Harm swallowed hard, working to get the pain under control. Then, using the hole in the t-shirt as a starting point, he ripped away a portion of the cloth. When his arm could no longer reach behind his back, he let go of his hold on the torn shirt. "Can't."

"I can," Joe said, reaching out with his able arm to pick up where Harm left off.

Harm moaned from the jostling the tugging caused. But in the end, they had torn loose a piece to wad against the bloody wound. As Harm pressed it tight against his side, he swimming vision studied the pipe from which their arms hung. "Think we can … dislodge these pipes?"

"Chances aren't better than none, I'd say."

"That good?" Harm groaned, making a move to get to his feet.

"Stay still! You've got no business moving until the bleeding stops."

"Have to try … while there's still light," Harm winced, his flaring side arguing otherwise. He grasped the wad tighter against his side and settled back down.

"Teach you to stay put, stubborn, know-it-all," Joe muttered, spurring his own body to stand instead.

Five minutes later, the nearly eight-decade old body was unable to keep pace with Joe's dogged determination. Sinking back to the angled floor, he gasped, "No … good, … need … hacksaw."

Each conscious of the other's need for rest, they sat quietly for long minutes, letting their bodies regroup. When the room was cast in complete darkness, Harm stirred. "Maybe we should put our energy … into yelling."

"No 'harm' in trying."

Harm acknowledged the man's favorite pun with a grunt, then took his turn yelling for help. Eventually their attempts dwindled, occurring only when a sound was heard that might indicate a jogger, adventuresome teen, or security guard was possibly nearby. At two in the morning, when it was clear neither human nor vermin were near, they stopped, exhausted from the effort.

"I'm sorry you got … pulled into this," Harm's raspy voice croaked, just loud enough for Joe's diminishing hearing to register.

"What, you'd … deprive me … of the most fun I've had in … years?"

"Excitement, maybe; … fun, I doubt it," Harm returned the gallows humor as he let his body sag against his outstretched arm.

"Then you'd be … wrong," Joe replied.

Hearing a heavy dose of melancholy along with the increasingly labored breathing, Harm asked anyway, "Any chance someone is worried about you not coming home tonight?"

"Not this week … You?"

"No," Harm answered, carefully shifting his position yet again. The heat emanating from his side competed with the barely cooler air temperature.

"Aren't we … a … sorry … pair."

Not liking the increasing wheezing coming from his friend, nor the first signs of infection from his own injury, Harm silently cursed Melissa Marvelle. Her assessment that they would both succumb before the place was demolished might well prove true.

Despite having a recent history of not sleeping well under immensely better conditions, Harm suggested anyway, "We should try to get some sleep." The old man's grunt made it clear what he thought about the idea, but Harm persisted. "We might get some relief propping against each other's back."

Another grunt, followed by shuffling sounds, indicated the old man was willing to try.

So it was in pitch blackness that Harm felt the old man relax against him. A short time later, Joe's low snoring confirmed sleep had surprisingly claimed him. His own ailing body demanding it, Harm nodded off as well.

----------------

Hot – the three letter word didn't adequately define the steamy heat of the ninety-five degree summer day. It was hot enough to fry eggs on pavement, soften asphalt, and melt Mac away. But she didn't care, at least for now as her legs churned along the running path. Despite the stitch in her side, the activity was cathartic – therapy for her troubled mind.

Perspiration glistening on her golden skin, she focused on the brilliant blue sky. It was perfect for flying, not a cloud to be seen. 'I wonder who he took. It could have been me; and would have been me if I'd been thinking clearly. Not only did I screw that up, I treated him poorly.'

Unsure of the details encompassing Harm's flying weekend, Mac made a pact with herself – one that didn't include leaving another recorded message on his machine. That wasn't going to cut it. She would keep trying until she spoke to him directly.

The pang in her side mocked it wasn't a perfect plan, and she agreed, for it might take until Tuesday to relieve her guilty conscience.

Resigned to that reality, she was left seeking any measure of relief that might salvage the weekend. It manifested itself around the next corner, in the form of a tall oak tree. A shaded bench below the tree beckoned. The quiet location was within shouting distance of a hot dog vendor and cold drinks. Thoughts of a cool shower and fresh clothes followed. For later, a cushy seat in an air-conditioned movie theatre sounded perfect to watch the horror movie she had wanted to see for weeks.

----------------

The unencumbered sun beat down upon the black curling shingles and peeling exterior walls. The heat-carrying rays bullied their way through cracks and chinks, baking the interior as they reflected off the uncomfortable oak floors.

"Huh!?" Joe flinched. "… What's all the … yellin bout?"

"Sorry, just wanted to try again."

The old man separated from Harm; then used his tongue to wet his dry lips. Meanwhile Harm let loose with another chorus.

"CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME? … HELP." Repeating the mantra for five minutes, he fell silent, gauging the level of sweat trickling down the small of his back.

In the sultry silence that followed, Joe mumbled, "Thought I was … dreaming it all."

"Unfortunately the nightmare is real."

"Can't feel … my arm."

Harm tilted his head up to look at his own wooden limb. "Me neither … Standing for awhile will help."

Not thrilled about the effort that would entail, Joe ignored the advice and instead stretched his legs out in front of him. Harm gingerly followed suit, the idea of standing no more appealing to him than for the older man.

"Bleeding stop?"

"Mostly," Harm winced, showing him the relatively dry, discolored rag.

"Your face is … beet red."

"Fever. The wound is infected."

The alarm in Joe's eyes was evident. "Hey! Can anybody … hear me? We … need … help!"

"Save your breath. I've been trying on and off for hours … The 'no trespassing' signs are working."

"Hours?!" Joe scoffed. " … Can't be …," he trailed off.

"You're a sound sleeper, my friend," Harm carefully couched, not revealing the stressful circumstances had sent the senior citizen into incoherent oblivion for the better part of the stifling day.

Joe looked at his watch, seemingly willing it to return proof he hadn't been 'out of it' for as long as it appeared. His stomach grumbled, breaking the self-recrimination and reminding them both of thirst and missed meals.

"Wish I had … my cooler."

Harm licked his own dry lips in non-verbal acknowledgement. Time dragged by, broken occasionally by the sound of expanding rafters brought on by the heat. Eventually Joe's chuckling broke the monotony.

Harm lifted his fevered head off his numb arm and turned his eyes toward Joe. Expecting to find delirium had again taken over the old man, he instead saw a lucid face. "Care to share?"

"Thinking about Eleanor."

"Eleanor?"

"My wife," he replied with an expression that took years off his face and instilled an equal resurgence of energy.

"Good memories?"

Joe gestured with his arm to convey more than just the room. "We'd come to these places, even before she'd fallen for me like I had for her." He squinted, forming the picture in his mind. "Back then women wore dresses -- everywhere. Ellie was no different." More chuckling. "There were these air holes in the floor. This place probably has them too. Anyway, I was friends with the guy who sat in the loft above the action. He had the power to stop the revolving Barrel of Fun --" Joe couldn't continue he was laughing so hard.

Despite their dire situation, Harm smirked. "Let me guess … Your friend also controlled the blasts of air … that had the power to lift the ladies skirts?" 

Joe nodded, wiping tears of mirth from his face. "I'd pay him for extra long bursts. Then I made sure I was always behind Ellie when we came through."

"She never … suspected?"

"If she did, she never let on."

When the light moment passed, Joe turned serious. "These places couldn't get away with that today. They're relics, like me."

"Hey, what happened to the 'no quit' attitude … of the Joe Morton I've come to know?"

"I'm missing Ellie. She's been gone fifteen years." He paused in thoughtful remembrance. "She cheated, you know."

"Cheated?" Harm asked warily.

"God no! Nothing like that. I mean here." His gesture encompassed the slanted room. "Or rather one like it."

Harm shook his head, indicating he was still missing the point.

"Ellie would duck under the pipes. You know, without going through the maze. Claimed doing so made her dizzy."

"Oh," Harm smirked, shifting his position. When he was settled, Joe turned to him and asked, "Did you ever do that?"

"No, I wanted my money's worth." He grinned weakly. "That and I had too much fun … trying to stay on my feet."

"Our son did too."

"Where is he?"

If Harm could have taken the question back, he would have. It seemed the air whooshed out of the room, taking the old man's renewed energy with it.

-----------------------

With the sun roof open, the air whooshed by as heat mirages on the pavement turned the surface to wavy water. The vision motivated Sturgis to reach inside the cooler of cold drinks sitting next to him. For the most part, the winding road kept his mind on his driving, except like now when a break afforded him a look at the clear blue sky. 'Perfect day for flying,' he thought, following it with 'I owe Harm so much more than just a beer, starting with a face-to-face apology.'

When Harm's phone still went unanswered late Sunday morning, Sturgis felt the need to see his father. There was more to it than just being Sunday. His recent behavior required a purging of his soul. And if Harm wasn't around to take his confession, there was no one better than his father to assuage his troubled mind. Forgiveness, however, would have to come from his friend.

The small church, with its pristine whiteness and tall steeple, sat waiting as patiently as those laid to rest in the small cemetery next door. Sturgis slowed, pulling into the gravel parking lot just as the second-to-last vehicle departed the completed service. The normal social hour that typically followed would be replaced today with an old-fashioned celebration of patriotic music, apple pie, and fireworks.

But that was something to look forward to later. For now his father waited inside, his open arms symbolizing a bond as strong as any father-son connection.

-----------------

Late Sunday, Harm resolved that waiting for divine intervention or the arrival of mere mortals for their salvation might not insure they lived. And living mattered. Bud Roberts had most recently reminded him of that. So with a renewed strength of spirit, if not body, he reached with his free hand to unbuckle Joe's belt.

"Damn it!" he cursed out loud, his arm immediately detouring to grip his side as the movement ignited the biting knife wound. Eventually opening his tightly closed eyes, Harm looked at his unconscious friend who hadn't so much as stirred. 'Probably for the better,' Harm thought, chewing his lip as he let go of his waist to try again, albeit more slowly, but no less determinedly.

Fifty minutes, two belts, and four shoelaces later, he went to work stringing together a lasso of sorts, his teeth doing duty his bound, dysfunctional hand could not. It was slow going, resulting as much from the importance of making a quasi rope that would meet his needs, as from the weakness, fever, and pain assaulting his faltering body.

Working alone, his mind drifted to the revelations his sleeping companion had shared the evening before. The monologue replayed in his mind.

"He served in … Vietnam."

Harm thought that was where the old man's story would end, suspecting his son, Joseph Morton Junior, was on The Wall with his dad. But he was wrong.

"When he called to say it was his turn to … come back, he asked us if he could … bring a friend home with him."

"Sure, we said. … We'd … love to meet him."

"Joey said his friend … had stepped on a land mind … and lost an arm and a leg … Said 'He has no where else to go … and I want him to live with us'."

"We offered to find his friend … a place to live. … But Joey was adamant … about him living with us."

"Ellie would have agreed … But all I could think of was how … someone with such a handicap … would be a burden, … and I told Joey so."

"At that point … Joey hung up the phone."

There was more to the story, but Harm was finished; and time and his strength were running out. Lest his hard work be lost with his initial attempt, he used his teeth to secure a shoelace around his right wrist. Connected to it trailed a MacGyver-like, eight-foot length of cobbled together belts and shoelaces. At the end, Joe's worn, black leather belt, with its more traditional buckle, would hopefully serve as the 'hook' to snag the knife lying fourteen feet down slope of them.

Tossing the line over the pipes standing between him and his 'fish' would get him nowhere. In order to have a fighting chance, the line would have to be cast below the pipes so that once in contact with the knife's raised hilt he might be able to coax it away from the wall and ultimately pull it up to them.

The additional three feet needed to span the distance required he completely extend his left arm. With each flinging of the makeshift line, the handcuff dug into his wrist – a wrist once again alive with more feeling than he wanted. With each attempt, his right arm pulled his injured side, the movement causing the staunched bleeding to resume. With each failed try, he gritted his teeth tighter, prayed harder, and re-coiled the line.

His stamina waning and his vision blurred by sweat and tears, he wasn't aware Joe had awakened; that he had witnessed most of the missed tosses. He didn't see the mixed emotions play over the pale face. Nor the resolve that finally settled upon it. He only knew that on the next try, he nearly leapt out of his skin upon hearing, "… son? ..."

The unexpected interruption caused him to flinch in mid toss; the unplanned trajectory resulted in a direct hit; the successful snaring and subsequent pulling on the line garnered him a closure of two feet of real estate between them and the knife. Then the buckle slipped off its quarry. His heart-stopping alarm was replaced with relief when the knife remained in place, rather than sliding back down the sloped floor. He tossed a hopeful look Joe's way. The old man stared mutely in response, his conflicted eyes speaking more than words ever could.

Harm ignored the unspoken communication. Instead he gathered himself once again. The two feet of closure, though hard fought, made a world of difference in his ability to successfully 'catch' the knife on subsequent attempts. Once half the remaining distance was conquered, he deftly looped the line in half to form a giant noose with which he pulled the eight-inch blade into his trembling grasp. He gripped it tightly to his chest. It had cost him too much to risk losing it. Yet he couldn't stop thinking about what it would cost him still now that he had it.

Closing his eyes, he let Joe tend to his bleeding side. Side by side they sat as Harm allowed the wad of soiled t-shirt to be held against his wound. Side by side they sat, neither willing to speak. Side by side they sat until Harm recovered enough to move on.

----------------

Bringing the picnic fare out to the table, Harriet paused to admire the beautiful blue sky. Though immensely disappointed Commander Rabb was not present, she was pleased she had given in to Bud's insistence that spur-of-the-moment parties were the best. She held out hope that Harm's absence at the picnic had everything to do with him still being away on his flying excursion, rather than anything to do with a lack of desire to accept her apology.

The laughter coming from the backyard broke her reverie and confirmed the raucous game of ring toss was not yet settled. The unlikely team of the two 'A.J.'s needed only two points from beating the equally unlikely team of Bud and Sturgis. Mac and Tiner sat nearby on lawn chairs, happily filling the roles of spectator and referee in the hotly contested game.

"Come on Bud, you're on the verge of losing," Mac taunted, her hearty laughter tickling the recurring stitch in her side.

"It's harder than it looks," Sturgis defended, sticking up for his teammate.

"This is how it's done, daddy!" A.J. Roberts stood proudly as he tossed the multi-colored rings toward the peg fourteen feet away. Two out of three settled squarely on the target. "Twenty-one! We win!" A.J. Roberts sang out as he danced with glee and accepted the high-five from his own teammate.

"Wait! Wait! It wasn't their turn. Tiner! It wasn't their turn!" Bud Roberts argued, looking for any ally in his corner.

Clearly making it known whose bread he buttered, Tiner announced with mock formality -- "Game, set, and match goes to Admiral A.J. Chegwidden and Mister A.J. Roberts."

"But—" Bud continued to protest.

"Dinner is on the table. Come and get it," Harriet's voice interrupted.

The mere suggestion of food was all it took for everyone to shift gears and descend upon it. Sitting side by side, they filled in all but one place at the picnic table. Immediately the previously boisterous mood was tempered. Seeing her colleagues' eyes focus on the empty space, Harriet vocalized their unspoken sentiment. "We'll see him tomorrow."

-------------------

When Harm regained consciousness, he first registered the ache in his jaw. Then with an overpowering dread, he realized he no longer clutched the knife in his hand. In the absolute darkness, he searched for it with frenzied need. His fingers found instead the pool of warm, sticky moisture.

With those same fingers he cautiously felt for Joe, praying he would find only empty space. His heart sank when his hand connected with flesh and bone, confirming what his eyes could not. Grasping the wrist, he felt for a pulse. Not finding one, he blindly moved closer. In the quiet of the night, he wrapped his arm around the sagging shoulders, buried his face against the still chest, and wept.

Later, his delirium-induced dreams were filled with creatures with Corporal Karns' countenance; mechanical laughing ladies who were the epitome of Melissa Marvelle; and an army of toothy, leering caricatures taken straight from a twisted JAG version of MAD magazine.

--------------  
---------------

---------------

As she sat on the bench, the growing murmuring amongst the panel members coincided with Judge Helfman's increasingly impatient drumming of her fingers. But both murmurs and drumming stopped when Helfman cleared her throat. "Return Corporal Karns to the brig. Court is recessed until further notice. I suggest someone find Commander Rabb; have him report to me when you do!" With that she smartly smacked her gavel against the polished wooden block, signaling the official dismissal of everyone present.

Hurrying out of the courtroom, Mac's worried eyes landed on Petty Officer Tiner just as Admiral Chegwidden's voice barked, "Tiner, any word?"

"Not really, Sir. Though I did confirm his plane never left the hangar this weekend."

Not sure if she should be relieved or more worried, Mac took advantage of the Admiral's presence. "Sir, permission to check Commander Rabb's apartment?"

"Granted. Take Commander Turner with you."

-----------------

When they found both of Harm's vehicles on his premises, the mystery deepened and the urgency increased. When their pounding and loud hails outside his apartment door were answered with ghostly silence, they found his spare key and barged in.

Mac immediately checked the bedroom and bathroom. Meanwhile Sturgis confirmed the blinking answering machine contained a dozen un-retrieved messages since Friday, two of his among them. The timing was consistent with the unattended, four-day-old mail still in his box.

"No signs of foul play in the bedroom," Mac reported, her eyes darting sharply around the apartment. Seeing Harm's cell phone on the kitchen counter, her instincts screamed there was something they were missing. And then it came to her – the faintest smell of something familiar. Something trapped for days in the hot, sweltering, unventilated space. Something that reminded her of Melissa Marvelle and the cheap, overpowering perfume she wore.

"She wasn't in court this morning!"

"Who wasn't?" Sturgis asked.

"Melissa Marvelle. She didn't show up this morning to watch the proceedings like she has every other day! But she was here. I can smell her perfume!"

Sturgis shook his head. "I don't smell anything."

"She was here!"

"Assuming she was, what's the connection?"

"You mean beyond Harm defending the man she feels is responsible for her brother's death? That's enough. You weren't there Friday, Sturgis. Harm was in his element." Mac paused to remember how she had squirmed in her seat at Harm weaved the vaguest possibilities into a tapestry proclaiming Karns' innocence. "Melissa probably sat there taking it all in, not knowing I would unravel the theories today on cross."

"So she decided to take Harm out of the picture before he could do more damage?"

Mac clenched her fists by her sides, barely maintaining a semblance of control. "Yes. She couldn't get to Karns. So she went after his defense counsel!"

"Then we need to find out everything we can about her."

-----------------------

When it came to the Marvelle family, it didn't take long to learn all roads led to Girard, Virginia. Relying on intuition, Mac was certain the answers to finding Harm were there. With Admiral Chegwidden's permission, she didn't waste any time heading in that direction. Meanwhile the Admiral employed personnel and resources to scour the family's history for leads.

Mac was twenty minutes from her destination when her cell phone rang with Admiral Chegwidden on the other end.

"Sir, tell me you have good news."

"I'll spare you the details until later, but local police have questioned Melissa Marvelle at the family homestead. She claims a flu bug kept her home today."

"And you believe her, Sir?!"

"I didn't say that, Colonel! Don't make me regret letting you take point on this!"

"Sorry, Sir. I'm just worried."

"Now, as I was about to say, the local police are heading to the family's defunct amusement park."

"Address?" Mac asked shakily, anxious to punch the location into her GPS-mapping unit.

"Intersection of state routes 8 and 97."

"I'm only five minutes from there."

"Mac, we might be too late. A demolition crew has already started taking down the last of the buildings."

"We're talking about Harm, Sir!"

"Understood. Call me when you know more."

When Mac arrived on the scene, the flashing lights of the police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks raised the hair on the back of her neck. The bright yellow police tape surrounding the half torn down building turned her stomach. But it was the black body bag being carried out of the debris that caused her to lose her breakfast.

A minute later, the detective in charge slowly approached Mac's form leaning out of the open door of the government-issued vehicle. Suspecting her physical reaction was due to more than just official involvement, he gave her another minute to recover.

Her vision swimming, heart pounding, and breathing erratic, Mac called upon every fiber that made her a Marine. Eventually she stood and acknowledged his presence. "Colonel MacKenzie," she managed to convey between her faltering voice and identification badge.

"Detective Brian O'Malley."

"I'm from JAG," Mac clarified, her voice still trembling.

"I know. I was told you were on your way." Treading carefully, he ventured, "Ma'am, I was also told you can identify the deceased."

Her eyes once again welling with tears and her quivering mouth unable to form words, Mac swallowed hard and nodded.

"He had no identification on him," O'Malley explained as he guided Mac to the ambulance where the bag and gurney were being prepared for transport.

Mac looked at him and frowned, her tears on the verge of spilling out and never stopping.

"I should warn you, Ma'am, it's pretty grisly."

"Just … just do it!" Mac stammered, not trusting her hands to work the heavy zipper.

O'Malley gestured to the nearest cop to open the bag while he surreptitiously stood ready to assist Mac if she fainted or freaked.

Mac's legs did buckle but she recovered without assistance. "I … It's … I'm …"

"Colonel, do you know who he is?"

Mac continued to stare at the pale face. "It's …"

"Ma'am? Do you know this gentleman?"

"It's not Commander Rabb," she finally blurted out.

"We know that, Ma'am. They're bringing him out now."

Mac's head shot up, her emotions continuing their roller coaster ride.

The detective's simple statement; the absence of a second body bag; the four men carrying the stretcher – it took her scattered mind longer to add up the details than it did for her to run to Harm's side.

"He's alive?!"

"Barely," one of the paramedics answered. "We're airlifting him to St. Vincents."

As if conjured up by the medic's words, the whop-whop-whop of the helo arrived on the scene. Mac was afforded only a glimpse of Harm's unmoving form before he was hustled towards the landing area. The oxygen mask over his face revealed a complexion only shades deeper than that of the unidentified corpse she had just viewed.

Left standing alone as the rotors whipped the hot air around, she yelled out, "Hang on, Harm! Damn you hang on!"

------------------------

When Admiral Chegwidden arrived at St. Vincents Health Center, he found Mac pacing in the waiting area. "Any word, Colonel?"

Caught unaware, Mac spun around. "Admiral!" Recovering from her initial reaction, she answered "He's still in surgery. All I've been able to find out is he suffered a knife wound."

Chegwidden ran his hand over his bald head and grimaced. It wasn't Bethesda. Hell it wasn't even Washington. His admiralty status wouldn't garner him any more information than what he was certain Mac had already bullied out of the nurses station. They had no choice but to wait and pray. Resigned to the situation, he took a seat in an otherwise vacant corner and motioned Mac to do likewise.

Mac obeyed the unspoken order before asking, "Did you … did you call his mother?"

"Yes, but she and Harm's stepfather are out of the country. They're trying to get a message to them."

"Harm will be pissed at you."

The Admiral raised a dubious eyebrow.

"I mean he hates to worry them unnecessarily!" Mac quickly backpedaled, doing what damage control she could.

The Admiral shook his head. "It's both a mother's and admiral's privilege to decide when we want to worry."

"Yes, Sir. A Colonel's privilege too." Realizing she again said more than she should have, Mac's cheeks turned a deep red.

The Admiral focused on the far wall instead, wondering not for the first time just how deep the feelings of his two senior attorneys ran for each other. Not wanting to actively pursue that train of thought, he quickly moved to a safer topic. "They've taken Melissa Marvelle into custody."

"Did she say anything?"

"No, she lawyered up. But Detective O'Malley traced an abandoned vehicle back to a Joseph Morton. DMV records confirm Morton as being the deceased found in the demolished building."

"Only half demolished. It was the amusement park's funhouse."

"Sick. But once again Rabb's luck held."

"So far, Sir," Mac mumbled, unable to forget the frightening amount of blood she had seen when investigating the interior for herself. Nor the halves of the two sets of handcuffs still secured to the pipe. She suspected bolt cutters were used to free Harm and Morton from their bondage but couldn't help wonder how or when the other halves around their wrists were removed. They never showed that part on television.

"… Colonel?"

"Uh, sorry, Sir. What did you say?" Mac asked, realizing she missed everything the Admiral had just said.

"I asked if you know what Harm's connection is with this Joseph Morton?"

"No, I was going to ask you the same thing."

"I guess we'll just have to wait and hear it from him."

"Yes, Sir," Mac replied, determined to match the Admiral's optimism.

------------------

It had been a close call the doctor explained, likely only a couple of hours separated good news from bad. But the prognosis was positive. The reassuring news helped allay Mac's fears as the doctor explained the nature of Harm's wound and the initial challenges they faced due to blood loss, infection, and dehydration. After stabilizing him, they had debrided the wound and sutured it closed. In the process they found nothing that would suggest anything other than a full recovery was imminent. Though it would be hours until Harm awakened, the hospital staff acquiesced to their requests to wait in Harm's room until he did.

Sitting in the chair alongside Harm's bed, Mac sighed gratefully when the Admiral again left the room to stretch his legs and hunt down more coffee. Now eight hours into their wait, his latest departure was another opportunity for Mac to study Harm's sleeping form without the watchful scrutiny of her CO.

With him no longer in the room, she stood and approached Harm's side, boldly running the back of her fingers down the side of his face. His color looked better. No doubt a result of the transfusions he had been given. But the black circles under his eyes remained, as did the cut on his chin, though barely visible through the five days worth of rough stubble. It was a look she had occasionally seen on him. Under different circumstances, it was no doubt a look she could get use to.

Her fingers against is warm face also conveyed the IV lines connected to each of his arms were still working to get the upper hand on his fever and dehydration. Likewise, none of the ministrations had reduced the swelling of his left wrist nor erased the abrasions and dark bruising marring it.

With a cursory glance to the door, she withdrew her hand from Harm's face, intending to gently stroke the abused appendage. Before she had a chance, Harm's eyelids fluttered open.

"Harm, you're safe. Melissa Marvelle is in custody," she reassured him once his uncertain, half-mast eyes focused.

"… where? …"

"Shhhh. You're in a hospital in Girard, Virginia."

And then he was out again. When he woke the next time, he was a little stronger, though his voice balked at his attempt to speak. "Don't try to talk until you've had some water," Mac soothed.

Having been given instructions that water was acceptable when Harm woke, Mac had made sure there was always a cold supply of it at hand.

" … sit up … first …"

Mac raised the end of the hospital bed, adjusting it only enough so that his head and shoulders were slightly higher than before. "I'm not sure this is within the rules," she grinned tenderly. "I don't want them to kick me out now that you're awake."

Harm rewarded her with a small smirk before accepting the straw she guided to his mouth.

"Slow, slow, slow!"

Harm didn't have to be told twice after choking on the first swallow, his coughing reigniting the drug-dampened pain in his side.

" … oww …"

"Does it hurt much?"

Harm took another pull on the straw before answering drowsily. "… not … much ..."

In the ensuing silence, they stared at each other before Harm asked weakly, "What took you … so long?"

Despite his drained state, she heard the teasing inflection in his voice. Nevertheless, Mac's eyes clouded with emotion. Lowering her head, unable to meet his gaze directly, she answered seriously, "We all thought you'd gone flying for the weekend."

Harm acknowledged the explanation with an understanding nod. Then his eyes closed once more and he mumbled "… sleep …"

"You do that. I'll be here when you wake up for good."

------------------

Mac's intentions of staying by Harm's bedside were thwarted on several fronts, not the least of which were Harm's improving vital signs. Then the hospital staff, having the wellbeing of their recovering patient in mind, pulled rank and curtailed visitations to the posted hours. Coupled with the unexpected arrival of the Burnett's, who professed the merits of access to corporate jets, Admiral Chegwidden ordered her return to Washington. It seemed duty still called, particularly in the matter of Corporal Karns' trial.

Before leaving, she left word with Harm's parents that she would return as soon as possible. That turned out to be longer than she preferred but sooner than what might have been. For while there was now no shortage of willing bodies to pick up Corporal Karns' defense, the defendant realized his odds at beating the rap lay best with his recovering counsel.

Having an equally self-serving need to clear her schedule, Mac quickly agreed to a temporary postponement until Harm was back on his feet. Thus she returned to the hospital before visiting hours ended Friday evening – 72 hours after leaving him sleeping.

Upon arrival, she stood unseen in his doorway, content to just watch him. Physically, he looked markedly better, his clean-shaven complexion no longer that of a fever-plagued patient. Gone too were the IV lines, replaced instead with a roll away meal table, currently cluttered with the dinner he was eating. They were all signs of a sailor on the mend. Yet his handsome face and unguarded eyes held an underlying stress – a testament to some burden or sadness she could only hope to ease.

About to clear her throat, she immediately delayed her entrance another moment when he suddenly pushed aside the meal tray and gingerly sat up straighter in bed. She couldn't help but stare as he shoved the bedcovers out of the way and pulled up his hospital gown, exposing the wide, white gauze wrapped around his waist. Her eyes widened, transfixed on the heavy bandaging she was seeing for the first time. A wave of emotion swamped her, reminding her how close she had come to losing him. Not wanting to drag him down further, she forced a smile on her face.

"Should you be doing that?" she asked, making her entrance when he started picking at the tape securing the dressing.

"Jeeeesus, Mac!" Harm yelped, his startled eyes popping out. He quickly pulled down the gown and self-consciously pulled the blanket back in place before easing his head and shoulders back against the pillows propped behind him. He sighed then grimaced before explaining, "It itches."

"Means it's healing."

Harm shook his head and smirked warmly. "That's what Mom said too."

"Comparing me with your mother, are you?" Mac bantered, looking around the room. "Speaking of whom, where is she?"

"I convinced her and Frank to go have a decent meal somewhere."

"Maybe you should have sent them for decent food for you." Mac pointed to the dregs left in the bowl from which he had been eating. "Cornflakes for dinner?"

His head against the pillow, Harm turned it in Mac's direction. "Easily digestible they tell me," he replied, his energy once again sapped by the minimal movement and exchange. He sighed. "This sucks."

She covered his left hand with her own. "You've been through a lot, Harm. Give it a little time."

Harm bit his lip, his expression distant, but he didn't pull his hand out from under hers. Instead, he looked down at the bruising and scabs encircling his wrist. The turmoil she had seen earlier in his eyes flashed for a second and then he surprised her. "Thanks for coming back."

"I wanted to stay Tuesday."

"I know."

Mac gently ran her thumb over the healing surface of his skin. "None of this would have happened if I'd agreed to go flying with you."

"Mac, don't--"

"Just hear me out, Harm, please. It's selfish of me and I know this isn't the right time, but I need you to know how sorry I am, how sorry we all are, for the way we treated you. We all lost sight of why you defended Karns. I lost sight of what's important -- giving your best effort every time, no matter how difficult. I know that now. What I don't know is how to make it up to you."

"It's okay, Mac …. I know a little something about making amends," Harm's weary voice trailed off. Mac's quizzical look went unnoticed when he gave in to shutting his heavy eyelids. She let him rest, content to hold his hand and wait until he was ready to share the information he had already provided the Girard police.

Eventually she released her hold and took her familiar seat. The nurses' aide came and cleared away the remnants of the meal. Harm slept through the housekeeping, his steadily rising and lowering chest a comfort to Mac. But as the minutes waxed on, his restful sleep gradually became more fitful. His head and limbs twitched with a subtle restlessness; it wasn't long before they were flailing with nightmarish abandon.

"Harm, wake up," Mac urged, standing quickly to gently shake his shoulder, trying to break him free of the torment. "Harm, you're dreaming." When he didn't respond to firmer and louder attempts, she reached for the call button, only to have him grasp her wrist with his right hand before she could summon help.

"Harm?"

"… Mac? …"

"It's okay. It was just a dream."

Awareness dawning, he sheepishly released the grip he had on her. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. Do you want some water?"

"Okay."

Accepting the glass and straw, he swallowed a few gulps. When he handed it back, Mac asked, "Want to talk about it?"

Harm raised his left arm off the bed, bending it at the elbow. He stared at his open hand before slowly making a fist. With his fingers clenched tight, he rotated his forearm studying it. And then he stopped the movement and just gazed at it silently.

"Harm?" Mac said quietly, more so to remind him of her presence than to pressure him for an answer.

When he didn't respond, Mac gently clasped his hand with her right. When he averted his eyes, but didn't pull away, she added her left, cocooning the cold, battered limb between the warmth radiating from her hands. When he finally spoke untold minutes later, an anomaly for Mac, she barely made out his whispered words but clearly heard the anguish in his voice.

"… he forgot … He forgot, Mac…"

Mac shook her head in confusion. "Forgot what?" she asked, equally puzzled about who 'he' was. When Harm turned his head away, she squeezed gently and asked again, "Forgot what, Harm?"

Harm's voice hitched when he answered. "… to break the bones first …you have to break the bones first …"

Mac gasped. Desperately needing clarification, she asked the safer question first. "Joseph Morton?"

Harm nodded, tears welling in his eyes. "It was supposed to be me."

"Oh God! … You … you were going to sever your wrist to get free … to get help?"

Harm nodded numbly. "He stopped me before I could."

Mac stood dumbfounded, her feet locked in place as Harm took a deep breath, tears streaking his face now. Rubbing his chin, he sniffed. "Knocked me out with a right hook so he could do it instead," he continued, a hint of admiration filtering through his sadness. "When I regained consciousness … he had already bled to death."

"Why …"

"Why didn't I do it anyway?" Harm asked when Mac couldn't voice the question.

She nodded yes.

"It was dark by then; and I was too upset and weak to find the knife. After that, I don't remember anything but the nightmares."

Mac's mouth was dry as dust. "Who … who was he?"

"… A friend …"

--------------------

During the next four weeks, friends were present at every peak and valley of Harm's roller-coaster life. When he was released from the hospital, they escorted him back to Washington and then watched over to insure he took things slow. Learning from him that Joseph Morton had no surviving family, they helped him make arrangements for Morton's interment and then supported him at the service when the old man's ashes were buried next to his wife, Eleanor. They came out in force when he had to testify at Melissa Marvelle's hearing and were prepared when he relived the anguish. And when he returned to work once his convalescent leave ended, all welcomed him back.

When Corporal Karns' trial resumed, they offered words of encouragement and, if their duties allowed, took seats in the courtroom gallery. They were among the few that were there. For the media, having a fresh plate of current events that would garner higher ratings, were no longer interested in the outcome. At best, the case of Corporal Karns barely earned a brief mention when final judgment was rendered. In the newspapers, the story was relegated to the back pages. If one took the time to read the details, they might have agreed with Harm's early assessment that the guilty aren't always as guilty as what they might first appear. And when found guilty, the more pressing question becomes 'Why did this happen?'

During the final proceedings, the truth came out that Captain Marco Marvelle was not long for this world. Not because of a bullet from Corporal Karns' rifle, that only hastened the inevitable. For he had an inoperable brain tumor he concealed from the military. That he chose to continue serving in Afghanistan during the few months he had left to live was not motivated by altruism. Rather the driving force lay in the fact that, having no life to go home to, he desired to end things on his terms. In a twisted bit of fate, his dying would also afford his sister with the military's meager $12, 240 tax-free 'death gratuity' payment and $250,000 life insurance payment.

As for Corporal Karns' role, additional evidence came to light supporting Karns' claim Marvelle provoked him to do the dirty deed. Because of the mistreatment and Marvelle's threat that 'sure as it was Charlie Company's last day in the boonies, it would be Karns' last day on earth,' Harm argued the circumstances didn't warrant a pre-medicated murder conviction and sought an outright 'not guilty' decision for his client.

Mac successfully countered it was the duty of the person threatened to use all prudent and precautionary measures to prevent the attack. She brought forth rebuttal witnesses who testified Karns ignored several opportunities to do just that.

In the end, Corporal Karns was found guilty of the lesser offense of voluntary manslaughter.

Whether the sentence imposed was lenient or excessive was a matter of opinion and one's point of view. As far as Admiral Chegwidden was concerned, Commander Harmon Rabb Jr. and Colonel Sarah MacKenzie had ably performed their responsibilities; and justice was served.

-------------------------

"Harm, I hate to tell you this buddy, but the counters in the kitchen are six inches too low."

"Don't worry about it, Sturgis."

"You sure, Commander? Because we're more than willing to come back and fix them."

"I'm sure, Tiner."

Sturgis shared a look with Tiner -- their mutual expressions conveying a lack of conviction in the wisdom of Harm's assessment. Nevertheless, they shrugged their shoulders then helped themselves to one of the fancy party sandwiches on Harm's counter.

"Hey, hey, hey," Harriet scolded. "Not until the guests arrive."

"And not until the last boxes of trash are taken down to the dumpster!" Admiral Chegwidden bellowed, sticking his head in Harm's apartment door. "Rabb said he wanted the apartment in move-in condition!"

"Yes, Sir!" Sturgis and Tiner snapped to.

"And on your way back up you can help Bud carry the last of the refreshments and balloons. Oh, and we still have to hang the sign and streamers," Harriet ordered, following the train of exiting personnel out.

In the relative silence, Harm resumed staring out the window in his loft. Mac came up behind him and put a hand on his arm. Together they watched Bud unload the van below. "It's been a grueling couple of days. You doing okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Slept like a log."

"Something is bothering you, though. I can tell."

Harm shrugged. "I was just wishing Joe could have been here."

"Do you think he would be pleased with how the apartment shaped up?"

"He might not have let on, but yeah, he would have been pleased. You guys came through."

"Hey, we weren't going to let you have all the fun."

Harm mustered a smile remembering how in no uncertain terms he was relegated to non-working foreman when his friends found out he was going to finish up the apartment. "As I recall, MacKenzie, you didn't let me have any fun."

"That's not true. We let you hang the picture of the pineapple in the kitchen."

"Mac, the nail was already in the wall."

"Technicalities, technicalities," she grinned, relieved he seemed a little more himself. "Oh-oh, I better get down there," she giggled, directing Harm's attention to the strings on the helium-filled balloons tangled around the Admiral's ears.

When Mac left to help below, Harm used the opportunity to walk through the refurbished apartment down the hall. Alone with his thoughts, he once again replayed Joe's revealing monologue in his mind.

"He served in … Vietnam."

Harm thought that was where the old man's story would end, suspecting his son, Joseph Morton Junior, was on The Wall with his dad. But he was wrong.

"When he called to say it was his turn to … come back, he asked us if he could … bring a friend home with him."

"Sure, we said. … We'd … love to meet him."

"Joey said his friend … had stepped on a land mind … and lost an arm and a leg … Said 'He has no where else to go … and I want him to live with us'."

"We offered to find his friend a place to live. … But Joey was adamant about him living with us."

"Ellie would have agreed … But all I could think of was how … someone with such a handicap … would be a burden … and I told Joey so."

"At that point … Joey hung up the phone."

"A few days later … the police called … told us Joey had died falling from a building … Suicide they thought … We were heartbroken … but had to identify him … at the morgue … It was Joey … He … he …"

When the old man was unable to continue, Harm finished the story for him, "He only had one arm and one leg?"

Through his sobs, Joseph Morton nodded.

----------------------

The colorful balloons framed the doorway. Straight ahead, the banner hanging on the living room wall read '#50 – In remembrance of Joey'. Standing off in the far corner, a middle-aged lady from H.A.V.E.N. wiped a tear from her eye before she spoke to the crowd gathered in the apartment and spilling out into the hallway.

"We at Handicapped American Vets Enabled recently lost a dear friend – Joseph Morton Senior. This was his fiftieth project for our organization. He donated his time, labor, expertise, and when he could, he donated financial resources. Some of us know Joe's story. Some of us also know that over the years he welcomed many men and women into his own home. Some stayed a week, others a month, a few stayed all year. But he never again turned anyone away who needed a place to live. If you are inclined to judge him, judge him by what he's left behind."

"Now, moving on to why we are all here. On behalf of Joe Morton, please join me in welcoming Brian Rutgers."

The crowd parted in half as everyone turned towards the now unencumbered doorway. The appearance of twenty-four year old Brian Rutgers, wheel-chair bound since encountering an IED in Afghanistan, had the power to turn tears of sorrow into tears of happiness. In turn, the self-conscious expression on the young man's face was transformed into awe and gratitude as he explored his new home with growing confidence.

When he rolled himself into his kitchen and was able to easily reach for one of Harriet's oatmeal cookies sitting on the counter – a counter six inches lower than normal-- Harm quietly slipped back to his own apartment. There would be time to get to know his new neighbor better in the days ahead.

The End

--------------------

Author's Note: 'Making Amends' was inspired by a short story and essay about friendship that I found on the internet. It was titled 'Judge Me By The Footprints I Leave Behind.' The author is unknown. 

Author's Note: Early parts of 'Making Amends' were based on the 2002 JAG episode titled 'In Thin Air' written by Don McGill.

Author's Note: The death gratuity is a one-time non-taxable payment to help surviving family members deal with the financial hardships that accompany the loss of a service member. In 2005, the tax-free 'death gratuity' payment was changed from $12,240 to $100,000. In addition, the government increased the amount of life insurance available to all service members from $250,000 to $400,000 with the government paying the premiums on the additional $150,000. The extra life insurance and higher death gratuity was retroactive to October 7, 2001, the date the United States launched its invasion of Afghanistan in response to the September 11 attacks.


End file.
